


For Charity

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson does a noble thing for charity.  Holmes is horrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Charity

I have never considered myself as a fellow accustomed to impulse or whim. Methodical by nature, and quite content to be so, nevertheless I surprised myself considerably upon that April morning at the Cramped Chimney Sweep Annual Fundraiser. The gathered crowd were vociferous and enthusiastic; their donations beyond generous. How could we refuse, the small group amongst whom I counted myself as the most temporary of members? Joined together in determined spirit, we each in turn underwent an identical ritual to thunderous support and applause. In those moments, I felt exultant.

Ascending the stairs to the sitting-room at 221B some few hours later, I rubbed my face thoughtfully. I twisted the handle of the door, and stepped in.

Holmes was sitting at the table by the window, examining some papers. I had not seen him all the morning, and now he looked up and across to where I stood. He straightened up.

“Good morning,” said he. “May I help you?”

I blinked. “Holmes,” I said, “it is me.”

My friend narrowed his eyes. “Who is 'me'?” he demanded. “Your voice is very familiar, I must admit.”

I exhaled heavily. “ _Me_ , you great fool. The fellow with whom you share these rooms.”

Holmes started to his feet. He took a hesitant step forward, then raised a hand and patted at his own upper lip.

“Watson,” said he, quaveringly, “where is... your moustache?”

“I had it shaved for charity,” I replied, smiling.

“Who on earth is Mr. Charity?” asked my friend, uncomprehending. “And why should he ask you to do such a thing?”

“No, Holmes, not a _Mr._ Charity. For _charity_. To raise money for the poor suffering young chimney sweeps of this great city.”

“I don't understand,” said he. He sat down again, looked to his documents, stared out of the window, then back to me, finally. But the sight seemed painful to him, for he swiftly averted his eyes back to the tablecloth.

“There was a group of us,” I attempted to explain. “All of us with excellent moustaches. The crowd threw coins into a large bowl, and when the bowl was full, a barber came and shaved us, one by one. There were a great many other attractions, Holmes, but this one was really most popular.” I felt my lip, self-consciously. “Did you prefer me with a moustache?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. He looked extremely unhappy. “You're not my Watson anymore.”

“Of course I am your --” I hesitated. “I beg your pardon, what? My dear fellow, it will not remain this way forever. I am growing it back as of this moment. A matter of weeks and it will be back as it was. Holmes, it was for _charity_.”

“So you keep saying. I do wish you had consulted me upon the subject before throwing yourself under the razor. I am going out, Watson. Expect me back before tea.”

So saying, my friend snatched his hat and coat from their hook, and swept out of the room. I stood at the window, downcast and lonely, to watch him stride down the street before rounding the corner and disappearing from view. I sat down at the table and shuffled papers together in my distraction. I had not had the slightest notion that Holmes had felt so attached to my moustache. Of course, I had worn one since the day we first met, so I supposed that the reason for my friend's extreme reaction. And yet, to charge so abruptly out of our rooms like that! Perhaps he had simply forgotten to buy his weekly tobacco pouch. I resolved to think no further upon the matter until his return.

By four o'clock, the downstairs door rattled and I heard the familiar tread upon the landing. Holmes entered, looking sheepish. He removed his hat and coat and replaced them upon the hook. He joined me on the sofa, flashing awkward little glances as he did so.

“I am back,” said he.

“So you are,” I replied. “Are you quite all right, Holmes?”

“I think so, now, yes.” He produced a paper bag from his pocket, and riffled in it. “I have bought you something,” he said. He plucked an item from it and placed it in my hand.

I stared, my poor brain trying to catch up with my eyes. “It is a false moustache,” I said, dully.

“Yes,” said my friend. “You will need spirit gum to attach it to your lip. I bought some of that, too. Here it is.” He thrust a small bottle into my other hand, and sat back expectantly.

I stared now at the bottle of spirit gum, then back to the sandy-coloured moustache, and then up to Holmes.

“What on earth?” I said.

Holmes frowned. “What is the matter, Watson? I have solved your problem for you.”

“ _My_ problem?” I set the moustache and glue to one side, and rubbed tiredly at my forehead. “I did not consider it to be a problem, Holmes. You surely cannot expect me to actually wear this? Tell me, what would your response be if I asked you to tie a false camel-hump to your back?”

“I would say that you were proposing something entirely ridiculous,” my friend replied sharply. “For I have never had a hump. You, on the other hand, did have a moustache.” He thought hard for a second. “Are you allergic to spirit gum?”

“No!” I exploded, “I am not allergic.” I stood up, and took a step towards the door. I turned back to Holmes, who was sitting quite crestfallen. “I am going to call down to Mrs. Hudson for tea,” I said, firmly, “and we shall have no more of this farcical talk.”

When I returned to our rooms a few minutes later, to inform my friend that a pot of tea and cucumber sandwiches would be with us presently, I found him in a black mood. His knees were drawn up tight to his chin, one arm wrapped tightly around; while with his other he was sucking ferociously on a cigarette, flicking ash upon the rug. He would not look at me at all now, his eyes sullenly fixed into the middle distance. I sat down beside him and touched his arm. He pulled away, mewling softly in protest.

“This has upset you,” I observed. I looked at the moustache and the spirit gum, still resting on the arm of the sofa. I picked them up, fingered them contemplatively. “I shall be just a few minutes,” I told Holmes, still sulking magnificently from within his curled-up ball. I retired to my room.

Five minutes later, I re-entered, and moved across to where my friend still sat. He looked up finally, all pout and pique.

“Oh!”

“Yes, Holmes...”

“Oh!” Again.

“I had to trim it a little,” I said, gingerly feeling around the edges of my brand new facial hair. “But the colour is a good match, so I suppose that it will do until my own grows back.” I huffed a resigned chuckle. Holmes's eyes were bright with unconcealed joy.

“Oh, Watson, thank you,” said he, uncurling himself. “You look like you again.”

“You really are the strangest creature, Holmes. I suppose you do know that?”

“Yes,” he said, softly. “Yes, I do know that.”

It is a wonderful feeling, to be forgiven.


End file.
